


Fever

by bennyboyTallmadge



Series: platonic!Washette [4]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Based on Real Events, Fishkill, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, November 1778, Sickfic, platonic!Washette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-01-27 14:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennyboyTallmadge/pseuds/bennyboyTallmadge
Summary: November 1778: Lafayette falls seriously ill prior to his departure for France.





	1. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!  
> This time with a story revolving around a real historic event - Lafayette's sickness prior to his departure for France in November 1778. Prepare for a lot of Hurt/Comfort, a sick Lafayette and a worried Washington.
> 
> Have fun, feedback is always appreciated!

“ _[…] at Fishkil, eight miles from head-quarters, he was obliged to yield to the violence of an inflammatory fever. He was soon reduced to the last extremity, and the report of his approaching death disturbed the army […].”_

 

 

It already was the fifth evening in a row that the Marquis de Lafayette attended a dinner in his honor. Congress had granted him an extended leave to return home to his beloved France, to reunite with his family and promote the American cause in his _patrie_. They even provided him with a ship that would carry him across the sea – a journey he was not looking forward to, considering that violent nausea had been his companion for the bigger part of his first voyage on the Atlantic. Nevertheless, it seemed a small price to pay for the joy that the return to France promised. Surely he would encounter some difficulties owing to the nature of his departure from his home country last spring, but his merits in the war overseas would quickly dissolve any hostile sentiments, Lafayette was certain.

His ship, the _Alliance,_ was awaiting him at Boston Harbor. He was to travel there on horseback, a journey that would take him an estimate of two weeks. Due to the reception that awaited him in nearly every town he passed through, two weeks were likely to grow to three. Now a famous war hero, he was treated with all the honors the towns were able to provide. No expenses were spared to celebrate his stay with dinners, receptions and parties.

Newburgh, the town he had reached in the late afternoon hours today, was no exception. Even if he had intended to decline the invitation to the dinner at the magistrate’s house, he would not have stood a chance. The town’s inhabitants were excited to host the famous Marquis for one night and it would have been an act of offense not to attend the festivities in his honor. Therefor, Lafayette found himself sitting at another table surrounded by people practically begging him to tell them of his glorious efforts in the war. It would have been a lie to claim that he did not enjoy the attention and admiration he was getting and the young general did not mind telling the same stories again and again.

As happy as he was about the popularity he had obviously obtained during his time in America, he, however, had to confess that the celebrations had started to take their toll on him. Every evening the dinners took a few hours too long, the glasses of wine he drank were a few too many and the hours he rested were a bit too short. The autumn winds and the rain he was forced to travel in did nothing to improve the state of exhaustion he started to feel himself descend into. A slight headache had accompanied him the whole day and now, owing to the music, the noise of dozens of people and the wine he had drunken, it had grown into a constant throbbing pain. It was but his fatigue, Lafayette told himself, that made his head hurt, nothing to be concerned about. The intense and uncomfortable heat he was feeling was stemming from the fireplace and the great number of people in such a cramped space, he was certain. Neglecting it as far as possible, he went on telling his hosts of his adventures in the army, his encounters with the Indians and the battles he had fought. As always, his tales were the cause for great admiration and fascination and Lafayette reveled in it. Glory and the feeling of being respected; this was what he had longed for to find in America.

As the hours passed, however, the heat grew too much for him to simply ignore it. He had already taken off his blue woolen coat and loosened his neck cloth as far as it was still considered appropriate at a dinner table, but it had not done much to improve his state. Muttering an apology to his listeners, Lafayette pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. A quick moment of fresh air would surely help him cool down and clear his head. As soon as stood upright, the room started to spin around him. A jolt of pain shot through his head and made him gasp involuntarily. Had it not been for the lean of the chair that he supported himself with, he would have lost his balance.

“Are you quite alright?”, he heard the concerned voice of the young women seated next to him, who had been gazing at him the entire evening with a look of silent adoration. Still holding on to the chair, Lafayette nodded and straightened himself up again.

“Yes, I fear the wine is effecting me more than usual today. I think it best if I retire for the night”, he said, earning sounds of disappointment from his hosts.

“Thank you for the dinner, I was very much delighted by it”, he added with the intention of soothing the people who felt that they had not heard nearly enough of his accounts. His words did not miss their goal. The magistrate wished him a good night without any further protest.

Lafayette felt the worried glances of the town’s people watching him exit the room with unsteady steps. All of the sudden it seemed a hard task to ascend the stairs to the room he was to stay in for the night. He had not drunken nearly as much as he had the past days and thus he lacked an explanation for the dizziness that overcame him halfway up into the second floor. Breathing harshly, Lafayette leaned himself against the wall to his left and closed his eyes for a moment in the hope that this would clear his vision. He felt like waves of heat were crashing over him, not a pleasant heat like that of a fireplace, but an unnatural hotness coming from his inside. He had to get to his room before he would faint on the stairs where he would probably injure himself. Clenching his teeth and trying his best to ignore the burning pain in his legs, he forced himself to climb up the last steps which he only managed by holding on to the handrail. Hopefully nobody had seen him in this state, Lafayette thought to himself after he had arrived in his room and closed the door behind him.

Why was he feeling this unwell all of the sudden? A few hours ago he had had nothing but a headache and now he struggled to hold himself upright. Despite the fact that there was no fireplace in his room and that it actually had to be quite brisk owing to the weather outside, Lafayette still felt like he was standing in midst of a burning fire. It did not help much that he took off his waistcoat and his boots, or opened a window. For a few seconds the cool air brushing over his skin seemed to chase away the feverish feeling but then it returned with doubled force. Finally he surrendered and closed the window again. The pain in his head caused by the movement made him groan and he carefully lowered himself onto the bed that had been prepared for him. He had probably just consumed too much alcohol during the last few days and this was his body’s revenge. Nothing that a good night’s sleep would not be able to resolve. Tomorrow he would be feeling just fine and he would continue on his way to Boston. Lafayette quickly pushed aside the images of military hospitals, of men dying of a fever, of soldiers writhing in agony, that crept into his thoughts. He was not sick, merely exhausted, that was all. He just had to rest for a few hours.

The very moment Lafayette closed his eyes, the heat all of the sudden vanished. He, however, was not given the time to enjoy its absence. After a few seconds he started to feel increasingly cold. Involuntarily he started shivering and reached for the blanket he had thrown on the floor earlier in an effort to cool down his bed as much as possible. But even after he had covered himself with the fabric, the cold did not subside. Lafayette could not think of an instance in which he had ever felt this way before. Surely his mind was playing tricks on him, owing to his fatigue. But how was he supposed to sleep if he felt colder than he ever had at the winterquarters of Valley Forge? Wrapping the blanket tighter around his body, Lafayette closed his eyes and forced himself to think of more pleasant things than the freezing air in his room. A fireplace, the sun on a warm summer day, the comfort of a warm bed. Anything to make him feel a little less cold. He did not know if minutes or whole hours passed while he lay there, teeth clattering and his slight frame trembling. Even though he felt tired, sleep just did not seem to come. Shortly after he had heard the bells of the nearby church and figured that it was two in the morning, Lafayette, still shivering, finally drifted off into a restless sleep.

 

**

 

When Lafayette awoke in the early morning hours, the first thing his still dazed mind perceived was that the throbbing pain in his head was still present. One hand pressed to his temple, he sat up, groaning quietly at the unpleasant, dull ache in his legs and back. Just the effects of a long journey on horseback, he mused, and the aftermaths of yesterday’s dinner. He disregarded the quite voice in the back of his head, whispering that he was telling himself a lie. At least he felt as if he was neither surrounded by a snowstorm nor burning alive, which he took as a good sign. A brief glance toward the window confirmed his presumption that the rain had not yet stopped. This meant another day of traveling through an unpleasant storm and being soaking wet after mere minutes. Comforting himself with the thought that in the evening a meal and a dry bed would await him, Lafayette proceeded to rise from his bed and get dressed. His knees felt weak, like they had after he had spent several days lying in bed after his injury at Brandywine, which he found most curious. Maybe he was focused on his physical state so much, that he already imagined feeling unwell – an explanation also for the sore sensation in his throat.

After getting dressed, which unfortunately included putting on his still damp coat, Lafayette collected his belongings and left his room. He intended to get on the road immediately after breakfast in order to make up for the time lost during last week’s dinners and receptions. Descending the stairs was much easier of a task than climbing them yesterday and thus Lafayette was able to reach the dining room without any greater difficulties. He had probably just been more drunk the past evening than he had believed himself to be.

The room was, in contrast to yesterday, empty except for the town’s magistrate who carried a stack of books in his arms and turned around when he became aware of his guest standing in the door.

“Ah, Marquis”, he greeted Lafayette, smiling at him, “I did not expect to see you out of bed this early.”

“I intend to reach the town of Pawling today. The earlier I depart, the better, although I regret to leave the comfort of your hospitality this soon”, Lafayette said. He sat down at the table and helped himself to some bread and cheese. The magistrate’s brows furrowed and he put down the books on a chair next to him.

“Are you certain you want to continue on in your state? It hasn’t ceased raining”, he said, eying the young man with a worried expression.

“My...state?”, Lafayette asked, not sure if he had understood the man correctly. Sometimes his English still tended to fail him and he had to inquire as to the meaning of some terms. The magistrate gestured vaguely toward him.

“You seem so pale this morning and yesterday we feared that you might be developing a fever when we saw your...unease at the dinner table.”

Lafayette found it quite unsettling that someone beside himself had the impression that his health could be impaired. Until now he had been able to convince himself that the only discomfort he was still feeling was caused by him drinking a glass of wine too much yesterday.

“I think I am quite alright, thank you. It is but a headache that troubles me.”, he said, taking a bite from his bread. It tasted odd, somehow stale although it looked perfectly fresh and Lafayette had difficulties swallowing it, as if a lump was blocking his throat. He coughed and quickly took a sip of water from the glass standing in front of him.

“If you say so. I will have a servant ready your horse”, the magistrate said. He, however, did not seem satisfied with Lafayette’s answer. Still a little disconcerted, the Marquis nodded and resumed eating. When he had – with some effort – finished his breakfast, he rose from his chair and proceeded to the front door. He found the magistrate outside, talking to a servant who was holding Lafayette’s horse by its reins. Several of the town’s people had gathered in front of the house despite the pouring rain. Apparently the word had already spread that he was leaving. He regarded them with a smile and mounted his horse, wrapping his cloak closer around his shoulders.

“Farewell, General, it was an honor to call you our guest”, the magistrate said, “We hope to see you again soon, America will most longingly await your return.”

Words like the magistrate’s ones still did never fail to touch Lafayette, although he had heard such phrases for so many times that he had lost count. Being in the continental army had given his life a purpose, it had provided him with a place he could call home and not least, with the glory and fame he had hungered for as long as he could remember.

“I shall be back in these beautiful lands soon, I assure you. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated.”, he replied. The magistrate stepped closer to him and lowered his voice.

“Please be attentive to your health, Marquis. I have seen many men succumbing to a fever after traveling in this weather.”, he said, careful to no let anybody else hear his words.

“I most certainly will; thank you, magistrate.”, Lafayette said, smiling at the man as a sign of appreciation for his concern. He bid the spectators farewell and urged his horse into a light trot. Twenty-five miles lay ahead of him, and he wanted to cover them as quickly as the muddy roads allowed. Judging by the dark clouds that covered the entire sky, the rain was not going to cease any time soon. His stallion snorted in displeasure at the amount of water and mud that splashed up from the ground with every single one of his steps. Lafayette patted his neck in a soothing gesture and murmured to him in French to calm the animal. He hated it as much as the horse to travel in this weather but he had no other choice if he did not want to keep the ship waiting even longer. He comforted himself with the thought of the French sun that he would soon again be feeling upon his skin and a warm bed that would be awaiting him at Pawling.

Pleasant thoughts, however, did not change anything about the miserable state he was currently in. Over night, a storm had risen in addition to the rain and it did not take long for Lafayette’s cloak to be completely soaked. The hood of his cloak he had pulled over his head did not serve any purpose, as it was constantly blown off by the wind. Finally he quit pulling it back up and accepted the fact that his hair would be exposed to the cold rain. Sighing, he lowered his head and tried his best to protect his face from the unpleasant sting the raindrops caused. He had not even covered two miles and could already feel how he started to shiver slightly. Lafayette clenched his teeth and decided that he had to come to terms with this journey being a long and fatiguing one.

 

** 

 

Two hours had passed since Lafayette had left Newburgh and he was making progress not nearly as fast as he had intended to. The road was slippery and his horse had been skidding several times before he had finally slowed it down into a walk. He could have risked trotting or cantering but if the horse had stumbled and fallen, he would have been left with no other option than walking which was even worse than riding in an excruciating slow pace. Judging from the fact that he had not seen a single soul on the road all day, he was the only person crazy enough to travel in this storm. In the meantime, not only his cloak but also his coat, shirt and breeches were soaked and sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

His slight shivering had turned into a rather violent tremor and not for the first time Lafayette cursed at how lean and thin he was. Broad-shouldered and sturdy men like Washington or Greene surely would surely not be affected by the storm as much as he was. No wonder the commander-in-chief always made sure to pass Lafayette his spare blanket, he mused and grimaced at an especially cold squall of rain hitting his face. As if the weather were not bad enough already, the throbbing pain in his head had not diminished in the slightest. Every single unsteady step his horse made, sent a sharp sting through his head. When the stallion stumbled for a moment because of a bough on the road, Lafayette winced in pain at the abrupt movement. He felt as if hands of steel were closing around his skull and holding it in an ever tightening grip. Maybe the headache was already clouding his mind, but he believed to see black dots dancing in front of his eyes, as if they were mocking him. He tried to rid himself of them by blinking several times, but it was of no use. The spots remained and made Lafayette grow angrier with every passing minute.

What was happening to him? The last time he had felt that miserable had been after he had gotten shot in the battle of Brandywine Creek, and he was certainly not wounded now. Everything else, however, matched his memories of the military hospital he had found himself in after being transported out of the range of British canons. An excruciating pain in his head, a dull sensation in his limbs and a hurting back, and a feeling of coldness that seemed so unnatural that there was no way it was stemming from the rain alone. What if the magistrate in Newburgh had been right? Was he developing a fever? The thought was an unsettling one. Too many men had died of sickness in the winterquarters and even his friend Hamilton had been struck with a fever that had left him bed-bound for two weeks. Lafayette pushed the fear that threatened to rise inside him into the back of his mind and urged his horse to walk faster. Maybe he could choose a town closer than Pawling as his goal for the day. The weather conditions would surely make the ship’s crew understand his delay.

For a few miles, he rode on, with his head lowered and shivering from the cold. Shortly after passing a farmhouse, the unpleasant sensation in his throat returned. He coughed, which made a sound that did not contribute to his efforts to calm his increasing fear. The stinging soreness remained nevertheless. The only thing he had accomplished by coughing was a dizziness that made his head spin and the black spots in front of his eyes dance faster. Breathing harshly, he felt how his upper body sank toward the horses neck against his will. All of the sudden lacking the strength to straighten up again, he stabilized himself by propping his hands on the horse’s neck. The stallion snorted in confusion but thankfully did not increase his pace, for that would have made his rider lose his balance. Although his mind was clouded by pain and fatigue, Lafayette knew that he would not be able to ride for much longer. If he would not soon dismount he would fall off his horse unconscious. He had covered about six miles since he had set out from Newburgh, at least he assumed this estimation to be accurate. If it was, he would be able to reach Fishkill in an hour. Parts of the army were stationed there and although he had initially not intended to visit the camp because it was not _en_ _route_ on his way to Boston, it seemed like his best – and only – option.

When the street parted, he took the left path which would lead him to his new destination. He as well as Washington and Hamilton had over the past year been frequent guests in the town of Fishkill and thus he could expect to be warmly received there.

 _Only two miles_ , he told himself, _only two miles_. This seemed like an eternal journey, considering how slow he was making progress. For a while he rode on, his upper body hunched forward, trying to stay awake at all cost and not be overwhelmed by the pain. It seemed so easy all of the sudden to just close his eyes and slip into a comforting and painless sleep. When he let his lids fall shut for a moment, the darkness immediately started to pull him into its treacherous arms. Lafayette knew better than to let the urge to give in win. With all the power he had left he fought against unconsciousness threatening to overcome him. He succeeded until the outer realms of Fishkill appeared in the distance. When he finally ceased his resistance, he sunk forward onto his horse’s neck, darkness surrounding him.

 

**

 

_Sir, can you hear me?_

_Marquis!_

_Sir, open your eyes!_

There were voices, far away, damped, blurred. Was he imagining them? Maybe he was dreaming, maybe he fell asleep after all.

_General Lafayette!_

He wanted to open his eyes and respond to the voice calling for him, but neither his lips nor his eyelids were following his wishes. All of the sudden hands were gripping him by his arms, pulling him downward. No! He would not let the grip of death and darkness posses him. In a last efforts he attempted to free himself from the hands, despite the excruciating pain that made him groan as soon as he moved. Is was of no use. The hands remained in place, tightening and pulling harder. Panic started to overcome him.

_Sir, please be calm, we need to get you off this horse._

Horse? What horse? The words he believed to hear surprised him so much that he ceased his fight. Only moments later he how he was lifted up and carried by the hands, unable to order his limbs to resist any longer.

 _Careful, don’t let him hit his head,_ another voice said and Lafayette felt how he was placed on a soft surface. He desperately wanted to stay awake, but the exhaustion was stronger than his will. Only seconds later he felt the darkness overwhelming him once again.

 

**

 

When Lafayette opened his eyes, everything seemed oddly blurred at first. After a few moments his vision slowly started to clear and he could make out the silhouette of a man dressed in white garments leaning over him. There was no way to tell where he was, as he could not see any of his surroundings. His first instinct was to panic once again, heart racing and breath quickening. Then, he felt a hand touching his arm, warmly, calming.

“You are at Fishkill, Sir, in the military hospital. I am Dr. Archer, the physician assigned to take care of you. Soldiers found you unconscious upon your horse. You seem to suffer from a severe inflammatory fever, but do not worry, we will try everything in our power to have you restored to your full health soon. The best you can do now is to rest”, he said in a quiet, soothing voice.

 _Tell Washington I am here,_ Lafayette wanted to say _, he needs to know of my whereabouts. There is a ship waiting for me in Boston._

His throat however was not able to produce any coherent sentences. The only word he, with great and painful efforts, achieved to whisper was _Washington_.

The physician nodded and placed his hand on Lafayette’s shoulder once again. “Do not worry, Sir, a courier has already been sent out to inform headquarters.” This was everything Lafayette needed to know. Giving in to fatigue and pain again, he let his eyes fall shut and drifted off into a world of darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hello on Tumblr: bennyboy-tallmadge
> 
> The quote at the beginning is taken from Lafayette's memoirs.


	2. Part II

**Part II**

 

General George Washington was about to finally eat his dinner after a long, exhausting day, when the sound of someone knocking at his door disturbed him. Sighing, he put the knife down he had just picked up from the plate and removed the handkerchief he had tucked into his shirt.

“Come”, he said briefly, without an attempt to hide the annoyance audible in his voice. The door was opened by a boy, barely old enough to be called a man. His boots and breeches were splattered with mud and the rest of his apparel seemed to be thoroughly wet from the rain still pattering outside. Judging from the white envelope he was holding in his right hand, he was a courier. The boy was clearly intimidated by the fact that he found himself face to face with the great commander-in-chief and was hesitant about entering the room, probably out of fear to attract Washington’s anger by dirtying the wooden floor in his office.

“What is it?”, Washington demanded to know. His daily amount of patience had already been completely consumed by hours of debates and giving orders. All he wanted was to eat his dinner and then go to bed as soon as possible.

“An urgent message from Fishkill for you, Sir”, the boy said. He finally entered the room with careful steps and held the envelope toward Washington, staying as far a way from the general as possible and avoiding to meet his eye. Washington took the letter out of the courier’s hand and nodded at him.

“Thank you. You may leave now”, he said, and the boy quickly did as he was told, visibly glad that he could leave the room again. When the door had fallen shut behind him, Washington returned to his chair and proceeded to break the wax that sealed the message. Intelligence, probably, he thought, or the report of a minor skirmish somewhere in enemy land. There usually were barely any urgent reports from Fishkill; just a few regiments were stationed there and were mainly assigned with the task of protecting the military hospital from possible British attacks. With a faint notion of unease, Washington started to read the message.

 

_To His Excellency General George Washington._

_Sir,_

_I have the unpleasant duty to inform You that Major General Lafayette has been overcome by an inflammatory fever. He was found unconscious upon his horse this afternoon near camp. He is currently under my care at Fishkill military hospital and will be transferred to the house of John Brinckerhoff, whom You are already acquainted with. All measures are taken in order to restore him to proper health and we hope that with the Lord’s help he shall recover soon._

_Your most humble and obedient servant,_

_Dr. Samuel Cockran_

 

When Washington lowered the letter, he noticed that his hands were shaking slightly. The air felt icy all of the sudden, despite the fireplace burning a few feet away from him. Lafayette had fallen ill and judging from the letter’s choice of word it was not but a cold that the Marquis suffered from. It took Washington a few moments to comprehend the meaning of this. If the doctor had to hope for God to assist him in his efforts, Lafayette had to be on the brink of death. The letter had been written yesterday, who knew how much worse his condition had gotten during the course of a day? What if the fight against the fever had already been lost? What if the next report about the casualties in the military hospital would carry Lafayette’s name on it? For a moment Washington was overcome by sheer terror. Images from last winter appeared in front of his eyes; images of men writhing in agony, coughing blood, their groans bearing witness of excruciating pain. His heart ached at the thought of Lafayette being in their place. None of the men deserved to suffer from a fever, of course, but his dear Lafayette? Lafayette, who was the most loyal companion anyone could wish for? Who was always bursting with youthful energy and zeal? Who never hesitated to be the first to charge into a fight? He deserved it the least of all.

Washington let go of the paper that had started to get scrunched up in his fist. A feeling of red, hot anger rose in him. Why him? A promising general of twenty-one years was not meant to vanish from a fever. He was meant to lead his men into battle and to eventually witness the victory of the American struggle for freedom. If it were his destiny to die at a young age, at least it was supposed to be an honorable death, on the battlefield, sacrificing himself for a greater cause. Not in a sickbed, reduced to only the idea of the man he had been before, in agony and deprived of the clearness of his mind. No, Lafayette would not die like this, Washington would not allow it. There had to be something he could do to help his friend.

Determinedly he rose to his feet and crossed the room in a few strides. The small quarters next to his office belonged to his personal servant, Billy Lee. Not bothering to knock, Washington entered and to his relief found Lee to be still awake. The servant seemed startled at the general’s unexpected entrance and thus just stared at him with a mixture of confusion and alarm.

“Billy, fetch the doctor”, Washington said in an urgent tone which induced a worried expression on Lee’s face.

“Is there something wrong with you, Sir?”, he asked, putting down the oil lamp he had been holding in his left hand.

“No, Billy, I am alright, no need to worry. Just get him for me, will you?”

“Of course, Sir”, the servant said and quickly hurried out of the room. Washington hoped that he would not take long to find the doctor. The longer he was left alone the more his mental images would torment him.

At least this one wish he was granted. After merely five minutes, the door was opened by Billy Lee, accompanied by Doctor Craik.

“Doctor, thank you for coming at this nightly hour”, Washington said, after Lee had left the room. His servant had probably already told the physician that the general was in no need for medical aid and therefor Craik’s facial expression was not as concerned as usual, when he waited for Washington to reveal the cause of his required presence.

“I have been noticed that the Marquis has fallen ill. A fever, the letter says. I want you to ride to Fishkill, come morning, to assist the physician that is treating him. Lafayette needs your care more than I do.”, he said. A frown appeared on the physician’s features at Washington’s words. He was known to be fond of the young Frenchman, especially since he had successfully treated his gunshot wound after the incident at Brandywine Creek.

“Of course, Sir, I shall leave as soon as possible”, he said and looked at Washington for several seconds. The general knew how obvious his distress was, especially for his personal physician who knew him like only few people did. He did not keep his affections for Lafayette a secret and thus it was well known for the persons close to him, how much a message like this would unsettle him. Craik placed a hand on Washington’s shoulder in some sort of a comforting gesture and slightly tilted his head to meet the general’s eyes.

“I promise, Sir, that I will do everything I can to save him.”, he said and Washington nodded at him, lips pressed together, not trusting his voice enough to give the man a verbal answer. Craik wished him a good night and shut the door behind himself, leaving Washington in silence once again. Lost in thought, the general crossed the room and lowered himself on his chair. The dinner in front of him had lost all of its appeal.

 

**

 

It was already late afternoon when Washington had finally completed enough of his duties for him to leave camp and head to Fishkill. He had only concerned himself with the most pressing matters and had handed the rest over to Generals Greene and Sullivan, but still he had taken much longer than he had intended to. The constant stream of intelligence and reports into his office never ceased, no matter how ardently his aides were working. Some matters required his, and only his, presence, for example the intelligence provided by Major Tallmadge. As much as he had wanted to pay close attention to what the young officer reported to him this afternoon, his mind had been occupied with other concerns. Personal matters did not belong into the office of the commander-in-chief of the Continental forces, Washington knew, but still he had not been able to ban the worries about Lafayette from his mind. Yes, the Marquis was of great value to the army concerning his commanding abilities, but Washington could no deny that it was the loss of his friend, he dreaded, not the loss of a general. The whole morning he had hoped for the time to pass faster, so he could finally transfer the command to Greene for the hours of his absence and ride to Fishkill to inquire after his friend. He felt as if with the passing of every hour the probability of finding Lafayette to be still alive decreased.

Now that he was finally mounting his horse, the sun had already started its descend on the horizon. His lifeguards had insisted on accompanying him, but Washington had ordered them to stay in camp. The eight miles to Fishkill were a distance he could cover in one hour, since the rain had finally ceased, and the road did not cross enemy territory. Besides, he did not want anyone to see how much the news of Lafayette’s sickness really troubled him. He could not allow himself the slightest sign of weakness in front of his officers, especially after the events of last winter, when he had nearly been replaced with General Conway as commander-in-chief. The men would eventually have to be noticed about the remain of their general, Washington knew. After all, Lafayette was one of the best liked officers in the army and his loss would surely cause some disturbance in the ranks. He also knew that he was not the only one entertaining a personal friendship with the Marquis. He had to inform his aides Hamilton and Laurens, who had been greatly troubled about the fact already, that Lafayette was leaving for France, even though he had promised to return as soon as possible.

For now, however, the priority was to reach Fishkill before nightfall. Washington urged his horse to canter faster. The evening air felt cold on his face, a first greeting of he approaching winter. If only this one would show more mercy than the last one, Washington thought. At least, the brisk wind helped him clear his mind. Now, that he was eventually on his way, his restlessness decreased. Still, he dreaded what was awaiting him at Fishkill. The thought of his dear friend suffering was not more bearable than it had been yesterday.

With his mind occupied he did not notice how quickly he was covering the miles, and he was almost surprised when the first buildings of the town appeared in the distance. Around eight-hundred soldiers were stationed at Fishkill at the moment. Their tents appeared as bright white spots in the approaching dusk. Washington remembered what the physician had wrote in his letter – Lafayette had probably been transferred to the Brinckerhoff home already. He and the Marquis had been guests there several times already during the last months and thus Washington knew which road to take. He encountered several soldiers in the town, who were – in spite of their surprise - quick to make way for the general and salute him.

When he approached the massive redbrick building, his pulse that had slowed down during his journey increased again. What if he was too late? What if Lafayette had already passed? He could not allow himself any thoughts of this nature, he decided. With nervously shaking hands he tied his horse to the pole in front of the entrance and ascended the stairs. He found the door to be unlocked, allowing him to enter without knocking, which he was grateful for. The less people knew of his presence, the better. He lacked the energy for any receptions in his honor at the moment. From his earlier visits Washington knew that John Brinckerhoff usually did not come home until the late evening hours. He had to hope for Doctor Craik, who had left camp at dawn today, to be present. Hesitantly Washington started to walk down the long hallway. It felt strange to enter someone’s house without their knowing, even if is was a friend’s house, who would surely not disapprove. All the doors leading away from the corridor were closed and thus Washington had no way of telling guessing Lafayette’s location.

He felt relieved when one of the doors at the far end of the hallway opened and the familiar voice of Doctor Craik welcomed him. Washington returned the greeting and waited until the physician had made his way over to him until he asked the question he was not sure he wanted to hear the answer to.

“Doctor, how does he fare? Will he-”, Washington cleared his throat as his voice started to get an odd, trembling undertone to it, “Will he recover?”

“At the moment I can not make any promises. We are doing all we can and are making sure that his pain is kept at bay, but as to his recovery it is to early to be certain of anything“, the physician said. Washington had hoped for an answer more optimistic. The thought that the doctor was not even sure if Lafayette would live, sent a cold shiver down his spine.

“Where is he? I need to see him”, he demanded, scanning the hallway for signs of his friend’s location. The physician, obviously intimidated by Washington’s tone of voice, pointed toward a closed door to his right.

“In there, Sir. But I must warn you, he is not the same man you might know. Most of the time he is in a state of unconsciousness and in the brief moments of wake he is – well, his mind is lacking all clearness. He talks incoherently and does not seem to notice my presence”, he said.

Without speaking one more word, Washington pushed past the man toward the door he had been pointing at. Maybe he should have braced his mind for what was awaiting him in this room. But then again, nothing really could have prepared him for the image before his eyes when he opened the door. It was a small room, only containing a burning fireplace, two chairs and a table, and a small closet. The white curtains were drawn close, which darkened the room but still left enough light to see everything clearly. For Washington, however, the furniture or the light were of no interest at all. The only thing of importance was the bed at the far end of the room, or better, the man lying in it. His first instinct had been to cross the room with a few strides to hurry to his friend’s side, but when he laid eyes upon him, the sight made him slow down and his steps grew unsteady.

Lafayette had always been pale; now, however, the color of his features nearly matched the plain white sheets he was resting on. It was an unnatural color, almost to light to belong to a living person. In contrast to that, dark shadows hovered underneath his closed eyes, darker than Washington had ever seen it on him before, even after sleepless nights of work and battle. His eyelids appeared almost transparent, every vein visible, which only added on the impression of unnaturalness. Traces of blood covered the young man’s chapped lips and Washington hoped that the redness was only stemming from the soreness and not from any blood that might filled his lungs. As he slowly came closer, Washington was able to hear his friend’s shallow breath, quick and labored. He tried hard not to think of his half-brother Lawrence who had sounded the same. Still moving in a very hesitant manner, Washington pulled one of the chairs toward the bed and lowered himself on it. His facial expression grew more pained with every second of looking at his young friend. A lump grew in his throat, one that was to big to swallow it down.

Lafayette’s cheekbones, which had always been prominent, were now appearing so sharply that they created the impression of being able to cut through the skin covering them. Not even three days in this state and the young man had already lost such a great amount of weight that is made his lean body appear frail.

Washington had to fight back some tears starting to burn in his eyes. It hurt like a bullet straight through his chest to see Lafayette in this state. Usually, the Frenchman was always bursting with energy and zeal, always eager, always having a joke on his lips. Even after he had gotten shot at Brandywine Creek he had kept his humor although he had been in excruciating pain. But now, all of the young man’s power seemed to have vanished. The physician had been right, Washington had to admit. This weak, lifeless body in front of him had nothing in common with the man he knew and cared for so deeply.

Feeling a single tear escape his eye and rolling down his cheek, Washington took one of Lafayette’s hands in his own. He barely dared to touch him, all of the sudden having the irrational fear that he might shatter the bones in his friend’s frail hand. Despite the paleness of his skin Lafayette was burning. Washington felt the unnatural heat as soon as he touched him and nearly dropped his friend’s hand in surprise. The fever was nowhere close to breaking. It had robbed the young general’s strength, his sanity, and if it would not seize soon, it would eventually demand the ultimate sacrifice. Just now Washington became aware of the bandage wrapped around Lafayette’s forearm. They had made him bleed, hoping this would contribute to his recovery. He remembered the days the physicians had done the same to Lawrence. The pained expression in his face, how he grew weaker with every time. It was in this moment, that Washington realized, his friend was dying.

“My dear boy”, he whispered, his voice shaken with emotion. He clasped Lafayette’s hand between his own, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“Do not dare leaving me, Marquis, I beg you.”, he mumbled. At first it felt odd talking to someone who was not responding and probably not even hearing his voice. But then again, who knew if he would ever be given the chance to speak to his son again.

“Do no desert me like this, not like this. From all the people, not you, just not you, please. I need you, son, more than I have ever let you know. You are the only one I trust in this world and I- I will not win this war without you. Please, Marquis, fight, do not dare giving up“, he rambled on, until his words grew incoherent and heavy with tears. Nobody was watching him here. Nobody would see him cave in. Shaking with muffled sobs, Washington sank forward until his forehead rested on his friend’s chest. Feeling Lafayette’s faint and quick heartbeat was a cause for further worries at first, but after all it meant that he still wandered in the world of the living. If staying with him was of any use to keep him there, Washington swore, he would remain here as long as necessary, even if it would take weeks.

 

Washington did not know for how long he had been sitting at his friend’s bedside, when a quiet noise startled him. He, at first, was not sure if he had just imagined it, but it sounded like the faint idea of a voice.

“ _Père_ ” Washington’s head jerked up and he wiped his damp cheeks with the back of his hand. Although the remains of tears were blurring his vision, he could see that Lafayette had opened his eyes. Washington stared at his young friend in disbelief until a sound awakened him from his state.

“Père” Lafayette’s voice was barely audible, raspy, more like a whisper. Washington, however, had no trouble understanding what he had said. Even though he did barely know any French, this word was one engraved in his mind. Clenching his jaw to stop himself from tearing up again, he looked at his friend’s face with an expression that would have proven everyone wrong who claimed that Washington did not have any emotions.

Lafayette’s hazel eyes were bloodshot, and the pain was visible in them. But nevertheless, the hint of a smile surrounded his lips. There was no doubt that he recognized the General despite his delirium.

“My dear boy”, Washington said, the same amount of emotion in his voice as the last time. Are you in any pain? I could call in the physician.”

Lafayette shook his head. “I am feeling alright”, he said, and Washington knew that he was not being truthful. Nobody who looked the way his friend did, could say he was alright without lying.

“The ship...Boston...Congress needs to-”, Lafayette croaked, trying to get into a sitting position but only managing to raise his head from the pillows.

“Be still, son, do not exert yourself. You need to rest. You will be well soon again, I promise”, he said, placing a hand on Lafayette’s shoulder in a calming gesture, gently forcing him to lie back down. The boy appeared angered for a quick second but then the frown on his face disappeared and he smiled at Washington. It was a tired smile, almost grotesque considering how obvious the sickness was in is features. Nevertheless, it was a genuine smile and Washington reciprocated it.

But only a moment later, Lafayette’s expression changed. His features mutated into a grimace of pain when a rattling cough shook his whole body and made his back arch. Washington felt the could grip of fear around his throat. He jumped to his feet and tried to hold the young man by his shoulders, when he started to squirm on his bed, mumbling incoherently, breath quick and rattling.

“Lafayette, be calm, it is just me, please, it is alright-”, Washington rambled, in a useless attempt to calm him down. The young man’s eyes were opened, but he did not seem to be aware of his surroundings any longer. His pained but calm expression had been replaced with a look of panic. Realizing that his firm grip was probably increasing Lafayette’s fear in his episode of insanity, Washington let go of his friend’s shoulders and stepped back. He did know how to lead an army, how to supervise his plantations, how to kill. He did, however, not know how he could help the boy in front of him, who was dragged into a state of madness by his fever.

Washington did not realize the physician entering the room. He became aware of the man’s presence only when he rushed to Lafayette’s bedside and grabbed the Marquis’ shoulders.

“What is happening? Doctor! What is wrong? Help him!”, Washington demanded, wishing he knew a way to help his friend. The physician shot him a quick glance and then proceeded in his efforts to hold Lafayette down.

“What have you told him? He has exerted himself, it was too much for his weakened body. He needs to rest!”, he said, anger in his voice. Washington nearly jumped at the Doctor’s words. Was the man blaming him for Lafayette’s seizure? What had he done to cause his friend more pain than he was already in? The Marquis had been delighted to see him and Washington lacked an explanation why these few minute of interaction could have dragged him into this state of insanity.

His process of thought was disrupted by a groan, filled with pain and so desperate that it sent a shiver of terror down his spine. It was in this moment, that it became too much for him to endure. He had seen battlefields, men screaming in agony and dying from the wounds caused by British muskets, soldiers vanishing from sickness, starvation and the cold, but the disturbing images of his friend, his son, fighting against his approaching death were unbearable. He felt as if he was betraying Lafayette, when he closed his eyes and turned away. Washington fought his urge to flee for another minute but finally he had to surrender. With quick, but nevertheless unsteady steps he left the room, with Lafayette’s pained groans following him. He did not even try to suppress the tears that were starting to burn in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated! I hope you enjoyed the chapter and forgive me for torturing these two, I couldn't help adding some extra drama. 
> 
> say hello on Tumblr: @bennyboy-Tallmadge


	3. Part III

“ _General Washington came every day to inquire after his friend; but, fearing to agitate him, he only conversed with the physician, and returned home with tearful eyes, and a heart suppressed with grief.”_

 

It was long after nightfall when Washington found himself standing in Lafayette’s room at the Brinckerhoff house once again. The curtains were still drawn closed and now there was no light entering through the window anymore. The soft flickering of several candles and the fireplace at the far end of the room induced a peaceful atmosphere. It was way too calm to fit the current circumstances.

Washington frowned. What was he even doing here? He had left the room hours ago with the intention of not entering it any time soon again. “He needs to rest”, the physician had said and Washington would obey the subtle order. He could not agitate his friend again, no matter how much it would pain him to keep his distance. Nevertheless, he was standing in the very same spot again, where he had, a few hours ago, watched the physician’s efforts to calm Lafayette. Now Washington was alone with his friend again. It took a few moments for him to realize that Lafayette was awake. The Marquis was propped up on several pillows keeping him in a sitting position and was watching him with attentive eyes. A smile lay upon his lips and Washington noticed that the dark shadows underneath his eyes had vanished. Lafayette’s features did not appear frail and sickly anymore but rather had regained their youthfulness and vitality.

How was it possible that his recovery had only taken such a short amount of time? It was when Washington intended to approach the bed, when the scenery turned odder than it already was. No matter how hard he tried, he could not step any closer. As soon as he attempted to lift his foot off the ground, it seemed as if an invisible force was holding him back. Anger rising in him, he tried again but his limbs were simply not reacting to what he was ordering them to do. Any steps he took backwards did not impose a problem, but every time he returned to the imaginative barrier, he just could not continue.

“ _Que fais-tu? Viens ici_ ”, he heard Lafayette say, the amusement in his voice obvious. Washington did not comprehend what his friend was saying but he could guess the meaning of his words. Another futile attempt of approaching the bed left him groaning with frustration. He did not understand. When he attempted to open his mouth and explain his curious situation, no sound was leaving his throat, no matter how hard he tried. In the meantime, Lafayette’s expression had changed from amused to disconcerted. 

“ _S’il vous plait_ ”, he said, his voice hoarser and quieter than earlier. The longer Washington kept looking at him, the paler he appeared to become. The dark shadows underneath his eyes reappeared, his cheeks slowly became hollow again and the lively gleam in his eyes vanished. Even the room itself felt colder all of the sudden and the warm shine of the fire had been replaced by a much less bright and colder light. How was this possible? Washington started another attempt to approach the bed, this time from the other side of the room. It was futile. As soon as he got within a few feet’s range away from Lafayette, he simply was unable to continue walking. His anger threatened to boil over. Starting to pace along the invisible border, Washington could only watch in terror as his friend started to shiver violently.

“ _Aide moi, père_ ”, Lafayette pleaded, making Washington’s heart ache and his desperation reach a new stage. The young man’s fists were clenching the bed sheets as he arched his back, a pained groan escaping his mouth.

“I can’t, son, I can’t, forgive me”, Washington wanted to say, but again, his lips did not form the words. Tears of frustration were starting to gather in his eyes. Again and again he tried to get closer to Lafayette, without the slightest amount of success. This was not fair. The only thing he wanted was to kneel at the bedside, take his friend’s trembling hand in his own and tell him that he was going to be fine, that he was going to be saved. Lafayette was staring at him with his eyes wide open, panicked, the agony he was in clearly visible. This look was the final blow that caused Washington’s heart to shatter into pieces. Not even bothering to hold back the tears burning in his eyes, he finally surrendered and ceased his efforts to cross the barrier. Washington wanted to avert his eyes, leave the room, or do anything that would liberate him from the burden of having to watch this horrifying scenery. He, however, found himself unable to turn away, no matter how strong his will to do so was. Thus, he was forced to helplessly watch as his friend stirred toward his defeat in the fight against his approaching death. Washington did not notice that he was clenching his fists so violently that his nails dug into his palm and caused painful wounds. All he felt was the agonizing ache overwhelming his heart as he saw the life in Lafayette’s eyes fade out. He had never before seen a more dreadful image than the one unfolding in front of him in this very moment - his friend’s body motionless, his eyes staring blindly at him, seeing nothing anymore. Washington wanted to scream. No, this could not be true, not like this, no!

 

 

“No!”

Washington wakened with a shout upon his lips. It took several seconds for him to became aware of his surroundings. He was sitting in his bed, in his room, at Headquarters. A dream. It had been a dream. A nightmare. He let out a shaky breath and buried his face in his hands. Washington did not remember having such a vivid dream in a long time. Usually he, in his sleep, was aware of the fact that he was experiencing a dream and not reality, but this time, although the scenery had been quite peculiar, he had been convinced to witness a real event. A shiver ran down his spine when he recalled the images he had seen right before he had woken up. Lafayette’s glassy eyes, staring right through him with this horrible, lifeless expression. How cruel of his imagination to make him believe these dreadful things to be true. A few minutes passed while Washington struggled to calm himself and recollect his thoughts. Ridiculous, he thought. He, the commander-in-chief, affected this much by a simple nightmare. Washington pushed the thought of the possibility that his dream was not nearly as far enough from reality as he wished in the back of his mind. The duties of a general had to be tended to, there was no time now for sentimentality. The men could not see him like this.

Inhaling deeply, he rose from his bed and dressed himself. He could have called for Billy to assist him but he preferred to spent some more time in solitude. Judging from the dim light entering the room through the curtains, it was still very early in the morning, maybe six or even earlier. The perfect time for a walk to clear his mind. The brisk morning air would surely be of assistance in his efforts to order his thoughts and prepare himself for a long day of councils and preparations for the army’s winterquarters. Every sane mind was needed now and he could not allow himself another day of distractedness.

Washington closed the clasp of his cloak and proceeded to open the door leading to the hallway. It was quiet on the corridor, presumably owing to the circumstance that he was the only one awake at this early hour. He could even hear the floorboards creaking slightly under his weight, as he made his way to the stairs leading down to the first floor. The light in the hallway had gone out over night and therefor he had to be careful not to miss a step. When he arrived downstairs unharmed and passed the aides’ office, he discovered that he was in fact not the only one spending the morning hours awake. The office’s door stood open and the sound of a quill scratching over paper in an almost violent manner attracted Washington’s attention. It was by no means an unusual sound but in the quietness of the hallway it appeared louder than ever. A look into the room, sparsely lit by some almost burned out candles, confirmed his suspicion. It was Alexander Hamilton, his esteemed aide-de-camp, living up to his reputation of preferring a desk over a bed. He was bend over a paper, writing line after line in a speed that made Washington think of the time he could save if he were to write his correspondence this fast. It was an image that the general did not witness for the first time – Hamilton, surrounded by piles of paper, an empty ink glass and several crumpled pages on the floor, his red hair loosened from his braid and pointing in every imaginable direction. Washington could not deny that the sight was a quite endearing one, which, of course, he would never disclose to Hamilton in order to prevent offending the aide.

Washington stepped into the door frame and cleared his throat to make Hamilton aware of his presence. The young man jumped at the sound, clearly startled by Washington’s sudden appearance.

“Morning, Sir”, he eventually managed to say, nodding at the general.

“Hamilton”, Washington addressed the aide, “Already awake at this early hour?”

Hamilton’s response only consisted of a tired smile and a vague gesture to the stack of paper in front of him.

“Not already, Sir, still”, he said, after having suppressed a yawn. He put a cup of coffee back down on the table with a disappointed expression after his discovery that the mug was empty.

“You should be resting for some time”, Washington said, although he knew that his aide would not even consider following his advice.

“If I may ask, what causes you to be still awake – or already?”, Hamilton asked. He folded a finished letter and put it on top of a quite impressive pile of correspondence ready to leave camp come morning.

“Already it is for me, I fear.”, Washington said, “The latest events do not grant me peaceful sleep.”

He could read from Hamilton’s expression that the young man was wondering about which events Washington was referring to.

“The circumstance troubling my mind is one you deserve to be noticed of”, he added, which did not contribute to clarifying what he was intending to speak of.

A frown appeared on Hamilton’s face. It did not happen often that Washington spent time circling an issue he meant to talk about. He rather addressed the matter straight away, avoiding unnecessary misunderstandings and tensions.

“What is it, Sir?”, Hamilton asked, putting his quill down to signal the general his undivided attention. Washington came closer and sat down on a chair at the table, facing Hamilton. He knew that he had to inform the men of Lafayette’s sickness, and the first ones he had intended to notify were Hamilton and Laurens, the Marquis’ closest friends. Still, with the images from his dream vivid in his mind, it was quite troubling of a task to begin with his explanation.

“It is Lafayette”, he began, which increased the confusion and worry on Hamilton’s features.

“Is he-”, he began, his voice growing significantly more concerned.

“No, no, he is not- he has fallen ill”, Washington hastened to clarify. He had not considered what his words might have seemed to imply.

“Oh”

Hamilton appeared somewhat relieved that he had misinterpreted Washington’s words. Still, the concern did not leave his face. He resumed looking at the general, apparently expecting further explanations.

“He was found unconscious upon his horse by militia close to Fishkill”, Washington continued, “A high fever, the physician says. I went to inquire after him yesterday, but he does not seem to be on the road to recovery just yet.”

For a moment he contemplated about mentioning how menacing Lafayette’s condition truly was. He, however, decided against doing so. Hamilton would surely tell the other aides about the troublesome news and if the men were noticed of the Marquis’ illness, rumors would be spreading very quickly. One man to claim that the young general had passed and whole regiments would be disheartened at once.

“Sir, do you believe he will recuperate?” Hamilton’s voice disrupted Washington’s thoughts and left him startled for a moment. It was a simple question and still he did not feel capable of answering it. He had to confess that there was some discrepancy between what he wanted to believe and what his fears were whispering in the back of his mind.

“I fear I do not know”, he finally said, quietly, not having found a way to avoid this honest reply. How easy it seemed to just hold on to the conviction that it would take but a few days for Lafayette to be restored to proper health, that he was strong enough to overcome the illness, that he did not hover at the brink of death. He knew, however, that this was mere wishful thinking.

“He has to”, Hamilton said after some long seconds of silence. “Dying on a sickbed? That is not how he will leave this world!”

His voice sounded enraged, like it often did, and a deep crease had appeared on his forehead. Washington had to be careful not to let his rising emotions breach the surface. What Hamilton had just said was precisely what had occupied his mind for the last hours. If fate had decided that Lafayette was not to see the end of this war, then he deserved a more honorable death than to vanish from sickness, deprived from all sanity.

“No, you are right, it is not”, he finally said, not directly facing Hamilton but staring into the distance, lost in thought.

“I shall go for a walk now, as long as it is still quiet outside”, Washington announced and rose from his chair. He had to leave now, before he would not be capable of keeping his concern at bay.

“Get some rest, Hamilton”, he added even though he knew it was a futile effort. As soon as he stepped out of the room, the quill’s scratching continued. Washington proceeded down the hallway, toward the entrance. The moment he opened the heavy wooden door, the brisk November air caused him to shiver briefly. Still, some reticent rays of sunshine were fighting their way through the clouds at the horizon. The men would welcome a slightly more pleasant day after several days of rain and storm, Washington knew. He condemned himself for the thought that Lafayette might not have lived to see this sunrise.

 

**

Time passed in an excruciating slow pace the following days. The weather conditions had worsened again, with heavy rainfalls and a cold wind blowing through camp. The mud between the tents was several inches deep, resulting in injuries of both horses and soldiers. As always, the men lacked food and apparel. The rations had been shortened already and at every corner of the camp one could come across a soldier without any shoes or even without a proper shirt. It was early November, the winter had not even fully arrived yet. Until the end of October, Washington had granted himself the hope that these winterquarters would not become a repetition of Valley Forge. Now, however, he had to confess that, from a realistic point of view, the men would have to brace themselves for another brutal, merciless winter. When Washington had walked through a part of the camp this morning, he had not been able to take one step without hearing a cough coming from inside the tents. The military hospital was crowed with men suffering from fever and pneumonia, many of them doomed to eventually leave the hospital not to return to their duties but to be laid to rest in the cemetery. Every time Washington witnessed how another corpse was carried toward the nearby graveyard, a cold shiver ran down his spine. How easily his mind played tricks on him, making him believe that the poor fellow the doctors were burying was his dear Lafayette.

Three days had passed since he had visited his friend at Fishkill and he had not yet found himself able to return the Marquis’ sickbed. His duties as a commander had to be put above personal matters, he told himself, he lacked the time for a journey that would take over four hours in total. Lafayette did not need his presence in order to recover, in fact, the visit had shown that he was only affected negatively by the agitation a friend’s company caused him.

In the course of three days Washington had accomplished to convince himself of this and to mute the whisper in the back of his mind telling him that the reason for him not returning to Fishkill was fear. He had declined General Greene’s offer to assume temporary command at headquarters for a day or two so he could inquire after Lafayette, even after Sullivan had assured him that it would not impose any problem for the two generals to relieve him of some of his duties.

“Sir, I know of your close personal friendship with the Marquis”, Greene had said, “If you want to keep him company, I assure you that you have my full understanding.”

His words had caused an unpleasant sting in Washington’s chest, and he had needed to clear his throat before rejecting what Greene had suggested.

The best he could do to support Lafayette’s recovery was not to disturb and agitate him, Washington told himself. Anxiously he awaited the arrival of couriers in camp every day, hoping they would not carry a letter with the report that his friend had taken a turn for the worse. When a report from Fishkill had reached him in midst of a council with two officers, he had had to excuse himself, in fear of not being able to maintain his composure, should the letter contain the message he dreaded. It had turned out to be a report on the arrival of supplies, but still Washington’s hands had been shaking for the remainder of the council.

Even at night he did not find peace anymore. Several variations of his nightmare were haunting him in his sleep. Every morning he awoke with sweat running down his back, making him shiver in the cold air. Horrible images occupied his mind whenever he did not find a mean to distract himself. The threat of losing his friend was omnipresent.

What he had said to Lafayette while the boy had been sleeping had been heartfelt. Whom could he really trust to confide in concerning his inner feelings, his worries and doubts, beside him? With any other officer Washington had to fear that this man he had put his trust in would eventually turn on him, using the acquired knowledge of the commander-in-chief’s weaknesses to undermine his command for his own advantage. But not so with Lafayette. Last summer, before he had first met the young Marquis, he could never have imagined that another French aristocrat with a way to high opinion of himself and way to high expectations concerning a command could be able to grow to be his closest friend. He had been just nineteen years of age, more of a boy than a man, more dashing in his uniform than fit for a battlefield. Still, it had not taken long for Washington to be drawn to him. Yes, the Marquis had been somewhat self-centered, making bold demands for a command although he had never before seen a fight, but in the first few weeks after their encounter in August, Washington had quickly learned that there was more to Lafayette than just money and a pretty face.

There was a great amount of zeal and courage in him, an apparently endless amount of enthusiasm for the American cause – and a hunger for glory. Brandywine had been the painful but ultimate proof that the Marquis was ready to sacrifice his life for the freedom of the American people. At Valley Forge he had endured the harsh winter with the army, fighting to keep the number of deserters and casualties in his division as low as anyhow possible. When Generals Gates and Conway had plotted against Washington to deprive him of his command, Lafayette had defended him with just as much ardor as he showed on the battlefield. After these weeks, there had been not a hint of doubt in Washington concerning Lafayette’s loyalty and trustworthiness. Their conversations, which had been confidential and intimate already in their first weeks together, had grown to be even more so. The way the young Marquis looked up to him, admiring, adoring, trusting, had allowed Washington to catch a glimpse of what it was like to have a son of his own. Whenever his confidence in his abilities as a commander had threatened to falter, Lafayette had managed to reassure him, distract him, or do whatever he considered necessary to assist Washington in his moments of weakness that nobody else was allowed to witness.

It was in no way an exaggeration to say that Washington, whom many believed unable of entertaining any deeper feelings, had learned to love the young general from the depth of his heart, like a father loved his son.

Winning this war without his dear friend by his side seemed an almost impossible undertaking to Washington. He had always imagined standing on the final battlefield, victorious at last, with Lafayette right next to him, and it had been a pleasant image. Now, the thought brought tears to his eyes.

Washington was perpetually torn between the urge to ride to Fishkill and assure himself that Lafayette was still battling his illness, and the fear that his presence would hamper his friend’s recovery. In addition he dreaded what would await him in the room that was the location of all his disturbing dreams. What if the next time he saw Lafayette these horrible images would no longer belong into his dreams but into bitter reality? What if there had been a report on Lafayette’s condition that had not reached him, for whatever reason? Whenever Washington was alone for more than a few minutes the composure he upheld in front of the men faltered. He resumed pondering about his friend’s condition, about whether or not to travel to Fishkill. He caught himself pacing back and forth in his office and getting lost in thought while writing a report and having to start it all over again because his sentences had started to become unintelligible. When he had teared up after coming across a letter from Lafayette written a few weeks earlier, he began earnestly questioning his sanity.

On the morning of the forth day after his visit to Fishkill, Washington surrendered. He called Greene into his office to tell him to assume temporary command and not to notice the men of his absence. Shortly after sunrise he departed from camp, neglecting the pouring rain that was stinging in his face and soaking him to the bones.

 

The journey to Fishkill took him longer than last time, owing to the muddy road and the wind that had risen overnight. After more than two hours – more than enough time for his mind to revolve around a variety of scenarios awaiting him – Washington finally arrived at Fishkill. This time there were barely any people outside, only a few pitiable soldiers on guard duty saluted him when he rode past them toward John Brinckerhoff’s home. Washington led his horse to the backside of the house where the roof offered at least some protection from the rain. He then returned to the front side to ascend the stairs and knock at the door, which was locked this time. It did not take long for a servant to hurry to grant the general entrance. Apparently word of his arrival had spread quickly. Washington had not even taken off his cloak, when Dr. Craik already descended the stairs leading up to the second floor. The physician greeted him with a genuine smile.

“Your Excellency, it is a pleasure to see you again”, he said, slightly startling Washington with his lightheartedness. If the doctor was smiling, Lafayette’s health could not be that much worse, he mused, and hesitantly reciprocated Craik’s smile.

“I came to inquire after the Marquis. How is he? Is there any change in his condition?”, he asked. His voice sounded more anxious than he intended it to. When Washington saw Craik’s smile vanish in consequence of his question, he felt his pulse quicken instantly.

“His fever is still burning, I fear. I am helping him with all available means, but still, he does not seem to recuperate just yet. He proves to be a warrior not only against the Brits but also against his illness, but if there is no improvement soon, he might not – I am not sure he will pull through.”, Craik replied, his voice much more serious than before. He seemed not quite comfortable with answering the question, which, for Washington, was a clear indicator that Lafayette still hovered over the thin line between life and death. Struggling to withhold his concern, Washington cleared his throat.

“What is your advice, doctor? May I see him?”, Washington asked. He needed the doctor’s approval this time, as he did not want to pose any hindrance to his friend’s recovery, even if he desired nothing more than to see him.

“He asked for you yesterday, when he was awake for some minutes”, the physician said, “I see no harm in you visiting him, but I have to ask you not to say or do anything that would agitate him in any way.”

Washington nodded, lips pressed together tightly, waiting for Craik to continue. When the physician showed no sign of having additional advices, Washington thanked him and proceeded past him toward to the door of what he remembered to be Lafayette’s room. He felt release, knowing that he was allowed to see Lafayette, that he could assure himself that his dear friend was still far from giving up his fight.

It was only when he was already standing in front of the wooden door, one hand on the doorknob, when an irrational doubt and fear rose in him once again. He was not prepared for seeing Lafayette in his current condition. He could not bear it. Not again could he see his dear friend lying in his bed, closer to death than to life. His hand on the doorknob trembled slightly. How easy would it be to just turn it and step inside the room? What if this was another vicious dream, forcing him to watch the Marquis’ defeat in his fight against his sickness? What if Lafayette had already passed and nobody had noticed yet? An image appeared in in his mind, an image of glassy eyes and an expressionless, paralyzed stare. _No_. Washington let go of the doorknob, quickly, as if it was burning hot all of the sudden. _Coward,_ he heard himself think as he turned around and fled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is taken from Lafayette's memoirs. According to Lafayette, Washington was so distressed by the Marquis' illness that he feared to agitate him and therefor did not enter the room. I wanted to create a story that explains the background of this short paragraph in Lafayette's memoirs. 
> 
> Feedback is always greatly appreciated!
> 
> say hello on Tumblr: @bennyboy-Tallmadge


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is 1am and I just wrote for 5 hours non stop because I just needed to finish this. Please excuse eventual typos, I will proofread this again. 
> 
> Be prepared for a hurt Lafayette and a lot of sap at the end (I hope it didn't get tooo cheesy) 
> 
> Please leave some feedback, I'd love to hear your opinion!

**Part IV**

“ _Suffering acutely from a raging fever and violent head-ache, M. de Lafayette felt convinced that he was dying. […] he would willingly have exchanged his future chance of life, in spite of his one and twenty years, for the certainty of living but for three months, on the condition of seeing his friends, and witnessing the happy termination of the American war.”_

 

Lafayette had never given much thought to how he would die. Never in his twenty-one years of age had he been sick, never wounded so badly he had been forced to fear for his life. Death had crossed his way as a child, when his father had died in battle, but the memory of him was close to non-existent in his mind. In France, death in battle had seemed almost as distant and improbable as being hit by a lightning strike. Even when he had crossed the Atlantic to fight in the American war, the possibility of dying had been but a faint whisper in the back of his head. If he would fall in combat, he had thought, naively, with the mind of a spoiled boy that had never seen the horror of a battlefield, what would it matter? He would be giving his life for a righteous cause, the ultimate, most honorable sacrifice a man could make. Brandywine had given him a painful first insight into the reality of what it meant to bleed for a greater cause. Still, the wound in his calf had brought him nowhere near the brink of death and he had worn his bandages and later his scar with pride.

But now, writhing in agony, drifting in and out of merciful unconsciousness, in spite of his feverish mind, he had made a new discovery. Death was not beautiful, not honorable. Death was nothing but excruciating pain and terror. Also, it did not grant him the favor of taking him quickly. Lafayette had lost all sense of time. Every hour, every minute was a blurred mass of pain and desperation, leaving him unable to even tell apart day and night. Sometimes he was convinced that he was being burned alive, with hot jolts of pain shaking his body. He wanted to scream for help, tell anybody to put out the fire that was consuming him, but the only sound leaving his sore throat was an inarticulate groan. Every time he was left with no option but to clench his fists until his palms started bleeding from the nails digging into the flesh and to wait for the mercy of unconsciousness. Whenever the flames ceased to torture him, violent pain in his head took over. There were moments in which he believed himself to lie on a battlefield, with a bullet in his forehead. He could almost smell the gunpowder, hear the screams of the wounded men around him. If he were to open his eyes, he was convinced, he would see the sky and the chaotic terrors of combat. His eyelids, however, were too heavy to be opened and thus Lafayette remained in the darkness while the pain made his head spin, as if he had been dancing too quickly, like a child.

Dreams haunted his already clouded mind, horrible dreams. Blurred and ghastly faces, staring at him, talking in tongues he was not able to comprehend. Hands touching, gripping him, pulling him with them, deeper into the dark. He always fought back, with all the strength left in his weakened body, but eventually, he had to give in. Sometimes he could feel a sharp, stinging pain in his wrist, like a blade cutting his skin, a peculiar sensation he neither knew nor understood. He only noticed that he grew even weaker after the pain subsided and that he eventually slipped back into the grip of unconsciousness.

The worst hours, however, were those in which he felt if he was being choked to death. He always had the impression of a heavy weight pressing down on his chest, leaving him unable to move or even breath. Desperately gasping for air, Lafayette felt as if two cold claws of iron were closing around his throat, seeking to suffocate him. The first few times he had tried to fight them, pull them away, but by now he had realized that it was a futile effort. Whenever the terrible feeling returned, he now just lay there, stiff with pain and terror, waiting for it to go away.

Occasionally, his feverish mind granted him a brief moment of clarity. In these rare minutes, the thoughts were running wild in his head. He tried to recall everything he knew about his current state, but somehow the lines between the real world and his feverish dreams were blurred to an extent where he could not tell the one apart from the other. He knew he was sick, in a bed, in the town of Fishkill, but that was all he was sure of. Whether he had been here for days, weeks or even months was completely unknown to him. Did anyone know of his whereabouts? Was the ship still waiting for him at Boston? Had the army been noticed of his illness? Did Washington know?

Nobody was there to answer his questions, and he knew his voice was too weak for him to call for someone. The loneliness was terrifying. Lafayette was used to always being surrounded by people, soldiers, his friends, anyone. In camp, there always was somebody to talk to, someone making a noise, someone to scare away the darkness with. But now, grave silence and isolation was all that surrounded him and he hated every second of it. There was no way for him to distract himself, to focus on something other than the pain. From his bed he could not even catch a glimpse out of the window, which would have given him some sort of occupation. In these moments, when his mind was clear and the pain even more intense than before, Lafayette almost wished for himself to slip back into unconsciousness. At least he would not have to bear his agony any longer then.

If only somebody were to come and visit him. Only for five minutes, only for him to see a familiar face, to ease his anxieties. He assumed that the doctors prohibited it that anyone except for themselves entered the room, but still Lafayette felt as if he had been forgotten by everyone he cared about. He thought of his dear friends, Hamilton and Laurens, back at the headquarter with the army, probably busy with their duties as aides-de-camp. They surely would not fail to cheer him up, were they here. Both, however, had not visited him at his sickbed, a fact that pained him thoroughly. Lafayette tried hard not to listen to the whisper in the back of his head, telling him that Hamilton and Laurens considered their every-day tasks at camp more important than their friend. What troubled his mind even more was the circumstance that even Washington had not payed him a visit. The man he admired and loved like nobody else was the person he longed to see the most. Washington had his duties to attend to, Lafayette knew, there was not much time for him to visit a sick friend. But still he feared that he would not live to see his dear General once again. Who knew, how many days, or hours were left for him? Maybe he would not even witness the light of a new morning falling through his window, come tomorrow.

Some days ago, in what he believed to be a dream, he had seen the General sitting at his bedside, his face grim with worry. Tears had been visible upon his cheeks and he had been clasping Lafayette’s hand in his own. _My dear boy_ , Washington had called him, emotion moving his voice, like on rare occasions, when they were enjoying absolute privacy. So many things Lafayette had wanted to say to him in this moment, but no coherent words had left his mouth. Washington had hushed him, he had told Lafayette not to get too agitated, that everything would be alright. Lafayette had felt strangely calm, a sensation unknown to him ever since the first signs of his illness had appeared. Somehow, the very presence of Washington had meant that there was still hope. It had meant, that Lafayette was not forgotten, that he could be at peace, assured that he would eventually recover.

It was only after a few moments of silence that the scenery had turned increasingly odd. Lafayette’s vision had been blurred all of the sudden and the room had seemed to revolve around him. The pain, which had been pleasantly dull and distant for a few merciful minutes had hit him again with full force, leaving him breathless and unable to move. There it had been again, the terribly heavy weight on his chest, suffocating him and pinning him to the bed. Through clouded eyes he had believed to see Washington’s face hovering over him, lips moving, but Lafayette had not been able to make out any sound over the deafening ringing in his ears. He had struggled for air, writhing helplessly, fists clenched into his sheets. This could only be a nightmare, he had thought, when he had felt Washington’s hands on his shoulders, holding him down even stronger than the weight on his chest did and thus making it even harder for him to breath. It was a dream, Lafayette told himself, it could not be true that Washington, of all people, was intending to do him harm. Never before had he been more grateful to loose his consciousness.

Even though the feverish dream had been quite frightening, Lafayette wished for the General to pay him a visit. Several times he had been convinced to hear Washington’s voice outside the door, quiet, in the distance, but still audible. Lafayette had tried to call for him, every single time, but nothing but a whisper had crossed his lips. Already exhausted by the minor effort, Lafayette had soon given up. Probably his dazed mind had been playing tricks on him, mocking him in a most hurtful way. If Washington only were to come and keep him company, to comfort him, in these hours that were likely to be his last. Someone to stay by his side until the end, that was all he wished for.

Lafayette had come to realize that dying was not the thing he was most afraid of. If fate had decided that he was to leave this world at twenty-one, what was there for him to do about that? No, death itself was not the worst part. Much more painful and frightening was the thought of never again seeing the people, the countries, he cared about. If he only were allowed to bid them farewell! His friends, his troops, the American people and their country he had come to love dearly. It filled him with sadness that he would not live to see the end of this war. He would not stand on the final battlefield, waving the American flag in a victorious gesture, with tears of joy running down his face. He would not live to see the people’s happiness about their newly gained freedom and never would he be able to tell stories of the war, sitting with his friends, in peace.

And oh, what he would give to see his beloved France once again, and if only for an hour! The green pastures and forests of Chavaniac, the bustling, lively streets of Paris, the astonishing, breathtaking beauty of Versailles. His wife, his sweet Adrienne, he had left behind in all his hurry to travel to America. How much he wished to embrace her one more time, share one more sweet kiss with her, bid her farewell in a proper manner. Now there would only be a letter, telling her that her husband had perished from a fever, making the poor girl a widow at only nineteen years of age.

If he closed his eyes and focused on it with all his remaining strength, Lafayette could almost feel the soft grass of his home country underneath his bare feet, the warm sun shining on his face, birds chirping their happy, innocent tunes. For hours he lost himself in this fantasy, over and over again, finding it strangely comforting to return at least in his mind to where he could never go again.

The longer he remained in the sweet reverie, the more painful his awakening became. There was no way of returning to France now, only this dark room, excruciating pain and loneliness.

Why was he not granted mercy? Why could the darkness not swallow him and never let him rise to the surface again? Why could death not finally come and end his pitiful fight? It would come eventually, Lafayette knew. There was no way for him to survive. His own rattling breath was the only sound keeping him company while he lay there, eyes closed, waiting for the arms of death to embrace him and pull him into eternal darkness.

 

And then, one day, the pain subsided. When Lafayette opened his eyes, it took him several minutes to comprehend why he felt odd, as if something was just not the way it was supposed to be. Somehow, he could see clearly again, without any gray spots clouding his vision and without having the impression that the room was revolving around him. He could see rays of sunlight falling through the window, painting bright patterns onto the room’s dark wooden floor. _Beautiful_ , he thought, hypnotized by the miniscule particles of dust dancing through the air, colorful, innumerable. There was still some pain present in his limbs and his head, but compared to what he had endured for however long he had been lying in this bed, it was but a faint idea of pain, barely noticeable.

The realization hit Lafayette like a bullet. He was dead. This could be the only possible explanation. He was dead and in some strange sort of afterlife. Why else would the pain be gone? Why else did he feel as if he were seeing the sun light for the first time? A grave sadness began to fill his mind. A part of him was grateful that his agony had finally ended, but mostly he felt a deep regret. Regret about the shortness of his life, the dishonorable way in which he had left the world, and the circumstance that he had died without having seen the objects of his affection one last time. Before he could ponder any further, a cough shook his body, rattling, painful, leaving him breathless for a second. This was strange. Was death not supposed to take away all suffering and make him feel no pain at all? Could it be that- no, he had been too sick, way too far gone, to still be alive. But still-

There was only one way to know for sure. Carefully and with great effort, Lafayette managed to heave himself up into a sitting position. He used his hands to support himself on the mattress, waiting until the dizziness in has head had diminished and his racing heart had calmed down again. It was exhausting to move, ridiculously exhausting. He proceeded to move his legs toward the edge of the bed, until his bare feet were touching the cold floor. What a strange feeling, Lafayette thought, while he waited for his breath to slow. He sat in an awkward way, hunched over due to his inability to hold himself upright properly. After some time, he decided that he had rested long enough. He reached for the nightstand next to the bed with one hand and kept the other one on the mattress. Hoping that the small table would be sturdy enough to support his weight, he attempted to pull himself up on his legs. He clenched his jaw when a sharp pain shot through his head and closed his eyes for a moment to prevent another episode of lightheadedness. Several times his knees started to buckle as he proceeded to straighten himself up. But there was no way Lafayette was going to give up. He was going to stand, he could make it, he was strong enough. Eventually, he was standing on his own two legs, heavily leaning on his nightstand, but he was standing. The feeling of triumph made him oblivious to the pain in his limbs and his head. Lafayette was unaware of the fact that the floor started swaying underneath his feet and that the room revolved around him. A smile still surrounded his lips when his shaking legs gave in and his body hit the floor with a dull sound. The impact left him breathless for a moment. Stunned and utterly confused, Lafayette remained laying on the hard wood floor, watching the rays of sun dancing above him. He raised one hand to touch them, feeling the warmth upon his fingers. Still, he was not feeling any pain. How strange, he thought, his dazed mind completely taken by how the light was painting a pattern on his skin. He did neither hear the hasty footsteps approaching his room nor the sound of the door being opened.

 

“General! Good Grace, what are you doing?”

Lafayette winced at the loud voice interrupting his tranquil contemplations. He lifted his head off the ground to see who the intruder was that had so unexpectedly disturbed him.

“Why in God’s name are you on the floor? You ought to be in bed, resting!”

A man, dressed in a white shirt and waistcoat, came to kneel beside him and grasped him by the shoulders, trying to get him to sit up. Lafayette had the impression that he had seen this man before but he could not remember his name or the place where they had met.

“Dr. Craik, what happened?” Another man had entered the room. He appeared to be younger than the first one and was eying the scenery from a cautious distance. Dr. Craik? Lafayette knew this name. Was this not the name of Washington’s personal physician?

“I- I do not understand”, Lafayette stammered, bewildered. “I am dead, am I not?”

Craik paused for a second, a frown appearing on his face, before he resumed his efforts of half dragging, half carrying his patient back to his bed.

“Well, you look quite alive to me, Sir, at least more so than for the past three weeks.”, he said, after he had finally managed to lay Lafayette down and cover him with a blanket. His words did not contribute much to clearing up his patient’s confusion. In addition to his bewilderment, Lafayette did now also feel a dull pain returning to his head. He winced at the sharp sting in his neck when he lifted his head to look at the physician, who was occupied with taking Lafayette’s pulse at his wrist.

“Where am I? What- what has happened?”, Lafayette asked, frowning at the hoarse sound of his voice. It required quite an effort to speak and his throat punished him for it with a burning sensation.

“You are at Fishkill, in the house of John Brinckerhoff.”, the physician explained, “You fell ill three weeks ago, with a fever that should have killed any man by now.”

“You seem to be a child of fortune, Marquis.”, he added, giving Lafayette a small smile. To tired to reciprocate it and also to exhausted to keep his head up any longer, Lafayette let himself sink back onto the pillow. Three weeks. He had been in his delirious state for three weeks. Lafayette did not remember any soldier who had been struck with fever for such a long period of time and had still remained among the living.

“What day is it?”, he asked. All of the sudden he remembered that the _Alliance_ awaited - or had been awaiting - his arrival at Boston. Three weeks, that was far longer than he had intended for his journey to the city to take.

“It is the twenty-fifth of November.”, Dr. Craik said. In the meantime he was occupied with changing the bandages around Lafayette’s wrist, where several cuts provided evidence for the numeral times the physician had hoped for blood-letting to assist his patient’s recovery.

“I have to leave, my ship-”, Lafayette began and attempted to get himself up into a sitting position. He groaned in frustration when he found himself unable to lift his upper body for longer than a few seconds. The physician let go of Lafayette’s wrist and applied some pressure to his patients shoulders to gently force him back down again.

“Be calm, Sir, it is alright.”, he said in a soothing tone, “Your transfer to France will be seen to. For now you have to rest, and recover. You must not forget that a few days ago you were barely alive and that any exertion may cause you to relapse.”

Lacking the strength to offer any resistance, Lafayette lowered himself back onto the mattress. Dr. Craik smiled at him.

“I will notice Headquarters. And Washington.”, he said after he had picked up the used bandages from the floor.

“The poor man is worried sick about you by now.”, he added, which invoked a questioning expression on Lafayette’s face.

“Washington?”, he asked, too fatigued from his fight to speak a full sentence. Craik nodded.

“Never before have I seen His Excellency as distressed as he was whenever he departed from here. He came by nearly every evening, but he was so afraid to hamper your recovery that I could not convince him to enter this room more than once.”

Lafayette, in his state of exhaustion and bewilderment, did not know what to make of the physician’s words. A part of him felt relief and joy, knowing that Washington had not, as he had feared, forgotten or ceased caring about him. His heart, however, ached at the thought of causing his dear General sorrow and grief. He wanted to speak, but Craik hushed him with a soothing gesture.

“Rest, Sir, sleep is what you require most now”, he said, one hand already placed on the door knob. The door had not even fallen shut behind him when Lafayette had already drifted off into a dreamless sleep – the calmest he had been granted in weeks.

 

**

 

When Lafayette opened his eyes for the next time, it was already late in the evening. The curtains of his window had been drawn shut and several candles were bathing the small room in a pleasantly warm light. Lafayette’s mind was still quite dazed from his long sleep, but he could already tell for certain that his pain had lessened further. There remained a dull throb in his temples and his limbs still felt incredibly sore, but compared to what he had been forced to endure during the past weeks, he gratefully welcomed those minor incommodities. He had – at least for the time being – accepted that there was currently nothing for him to do beside resting. Therefor, giving his body the chance to drift off into another hour of sleep, he closed his eyes again.

A few moments after doing so, he however noticed something odd. He felt as if there was a weight resting on his right forearm; not a heavy, violent weight like the one he had believed to be pressing down on his chest during his delirium, but a rather light one that he had almost failed to feel in his sleepy state of mind. He had to admit that, with the warmth radiating from it, the weight was not an unpleasant one at all. It almost felt like a – hand?

With slight bewilderment, Lafayette lifted his head to look upon his forearm. When he saw that his assumption had been right and whom the hand resting on his arm belonged to, he almost jumped with surprise. Right next to his bed, Washington was sitting on a chair, in a slumped position, appearing to be asleep. It escaped Lafayette’s understanding how his drowsiness had been too severe for him to notice earlier.

After he had recovered from the slight shock Washington’s unexpected presence had given him, Lafayette allowed himself a longer glance at his friend. The general's head had sunken to the side and was leaning heavily against the back of the chair. His mouth was gaping open slightly, giving his face a somewhat innocent expression – if ‘innocent' was a word one could ever use when describing His Excellency. Washington’s features were usually solemn and stern if not tense, but now, they appeared relaxed in a way Lafayette doubted anyone had witnessed in a long time. He could not help a smile creeping onto his lips at this quite endearing sight. It was not the first time he saw the general sleeping; after all it was nothing unusual for the commander-in-chief to fall asleep at his desk and for Lafayette to wake him, should he find Washington in this state. They had shared a room, and at some point, when the cold at Valley Forge had been unbearable even in the heated environment of the headquarters, and it had been too late for Lafayette to return to his own quarters at the other end of camp, they had even shared a bed for warmth. Lafayette, however, had never before watched his friend so closely in his sleep as he did now, and he found himself overcome with affection for the man he considered his adoptive father. When he had first come to America, he had not expected anything but a professional relationship between him and the commander-in-chief – he had felt honored just to speak to him in person. Never could he have imagined that the General, said by many to be stoic, incapable of emotion, would come to love him so tenderly, and become the closest to a father Lafayette had ever known. And now, Lafayette found himself on his sickbed, with Washington asleep beside him, with his hand holding on to the forearm of his friend, as if letting go would cause Lafayette to vanish. Lafayette felt tears swell in his eyes despite the smile still present on his lips. He could only imagine how much pain and sorrow he had caused Washington in the course of the past three weeks. Although he could barely wait for the General to wake up and see him in better health, Lafayette decided to stay still. He knew that no man in the army was getting nearly as much sleep as he required and thus he wanted to grant Washington a few moments of quietness and relaxation. In addition, the warmth of the hand resting on his arm felt way too comforting for him to break the contact just yet.

Despite his decision not to wake Washington, Lafayette found himself unable to remain in his current position after the passing of half an hour. His arm started to tingle in an unpleasant way from the lack of movement and thus he finally gave in to the urge to shift on his bed. He could not avoid moving his arm, too, and thus he was not surprised when he heard Washington's deep breath being interrupted. Lafayette turned his head toward the General with a cautious expression, suddenly feeling nervous for a reason he could not quite disclose. He saw a notion of confusion passing on Washington’s face when he straightened up in his chair and appeared to be determining the location in which he had just woken up. Lafayette could tell the exact second in which his friend became aware of where he was, from the way Washington sharply turned his head toward the bed to his left.

“Lafayette”  

Washington's voice was but a whisper when their eyes met. Lafayette felt a lump grow in his throat at the sight of the General’s face, filled with unconcealed emotion. He could see all the sorrow and grief of three weeks of incertitude, joy and release over his recovery and an amount of heartfelt affection that Lafayette was not sure he deserved. He had to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep his own emotions at bay, with dampness returning into his eyes.

When Washington stood from his chair and came closer to the bed, he let go of Lafayette’s arm, but he did not break their eye contact, as if he feared that him looking away would cause his young friend to fall back into his delirious state.

“How do you feel? Are you- are you in any pain?”, he asked, his voice trembling ever so slightly. It was obvious to Lafayette that his friend was unsure about how to act. Washington’s eyes were now roaming over Lafayette’s face and body in a restless manner, and he seemed unsure about what to do with his hands, fidgeting nervously at the seam of his coat. Lafayette shook his head in a negating gesture and smiled at Washington who still seemed to perplexed to reciprocate it.

“It is good to see you”, Lafayette said. His voice still sounded very hoarse and speaking caused his throat to sting, but his delight about Washington’s visit made him oblivious to the pain.

“I feared I might not be given the chance to do so ever again”, he added, quieter, more seriously.  

Washington's expression had already been more emotive than Lafayette had seen it in a long time, but at these words something inside him seemed to shatter.

“Oh, My dear -", he began, but he was too moved to continue speaking. Instead, he stepped a few inches closer and slowly, almost hesitantly sank onto his knees beside the bed, his eyes still fixated on Lafayette's.

Lafayette felt his breath catch in his throat. He stayed perfectly still, not daring to move but an inch, when Washington rested his head on Lafayette's chest, carefully, slowly, as if the boy were to shatter from the lightest touch. One hand touched upper arm, the other one, after some seconds during which Lafayette had not shown any signs of disapproval, came to rest at the crook of his neck.

The same second that Lafayette finally exhaled shakily, he heard a muffled sob; a sound that made him feel as if his heart had just splintered into pieces. Not sure how to react, Lafayette raised one arm and returned the embrace as far as possible, resting his hand on his friend's back, caressing him it in soothing circles. He felt Washington shake with now silent sobs and as much as it pained him, Lafayette knew that there was nothing for him to do but to wait until the General had calmed down.

“I was sure I had lost you”, he eventually heard Washington murmur, his voice muffled by the fabric of Lafayette’s shirt.

“It is alright”, Lafayette said, lacking a better response that would be of any help in his efforts to calm his friend. “I am still here, yes?”

Slowly, Washington raised his head from where it had still been resting on Lafayette's chest. His eyes were red from the silent tears he had failed to hide and he quickly swiped over his cheeks with one hand.

“You are still here”, Washington repeated, sounding as if he had become aware of that just now. He took several deep breaths, obviously struggling to collect himself. After several minutes of silence, he seemed to have succeeded, since he began to speak once again.

“When I saw you lying on this bed, struck with fever, I at first failed to even recognize you. You seemed so – so far gone already and-"  He halted in midst of his sentence and lowered his eyes.

“I am so sorry, son", he said, quietly, his voice not much more than a whisper again. Confusion took hold of Lafayette. He found himself unable to comprehend what Washington was trying to say. He was sorry? Sorry for what?

“I fear I do not follow”, he said, even after a minute still failing to understand the meaning of Washington's words. The General appeared to be searching for the right terms, brows furrowed, his eyes closely inspecting the blanket covering Lafayette. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with emotion.

“I deserted you, left your side, when you most needed me, because of my – because I could not bear to see you like this. I let my cowardice keep me from doing what was right: remaining with you like a father would remain with his son. I failed you, Marquis, and I am utterly sorry for it.” He had grown louder with every sentence and the guilt audible in his voice was unbearable for Lafayette.

 “No, please, do not say such things”, he pleaded. The lump in his throat had returned and the desperate expression on his friend's face made it grow even bigger.

“Why?”, Washington asked, “I am merely speaking the truth.”

He sounded so sad, so dejected, that Lafayette could not bear it just a second longer. Lacking a better option, he placed his hand on top of Washington's, which was resting on the edge of the bed.

“You are here now, this is what matters to me”, he said, giving Washington the brightest smile one could possibly manage while being on the verge of tears.

Before Washington was given the chance to respond, he was interrupted by the bell of the nearby church. Midnight. Lafayette was suddenly struck by an irrational fear that Washington would decide to leave and head back to camp. He could not be alone again, not now, after three weeks of painful solitude.

“Stay with me?”, he asked, and he sounded a lot more anxious and feeble as he had intended to.

Washington responded by clasping Lafayette’s hand with his own.

“I will", he said, and when the General finally smiled at his adopted son for the first time in this night, all the pain, all the fear of three horrible weeks were for a moment but a distant memory In Lafayette's mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hello on tumblr: @bennyboy-Tallmadge
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> I'm going to sleep now, good night, guys


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